Have baby, will travel

43. Hermit for hire [Manchester Museum]

I’ve timed things perfectly. As we arrived at Manchester Museum, Milo dropped off, taking full advantage of his swanky new pushchair to drift into a long sleep. I peer down at him and smile: his nap means I have a precious hour or so to have a coffee, read and eat. Heck, I might even have a moment to contemplate life.

Sitting in the empty Play & Learn Centre, I bask in the peaceful quiet. I do love Milo, but, god, it’s great when he’s asleep.

Just then, I hear a clattering of feet. The floor protests at the unexpected weight of several dozen pairs of school shoes, creaking and squeaking as they jumble along. I look up and sigh. I’d forgotten it was term time. Draining my coffee, I pack up and wheel Milo away.

I’m not having a bunch of noisy bag swinging kids wake him up, I think.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the lift doors shut, sealing out the chattering children, and then wince as a ‘BING BONG’ is followed by a very loud ‘LEVEL 2. DOORS OPENING.’

‘Why does everything have to be so bloody loud?’ I grumble to myself.

I peer out of the lift and, spotting a crocodile of primary school pupils by the Egyptian mummies, head instead towards the Mammals Gallery. I’m stopped in my tracks when I hear the unmistakable squeals of a party of toddlers. None so noisy as the under threes, I reason, and instead wheel Milo straight ahead.

We find ourselves in a tiny, dark gallery that’s partitioned off from the main space by paper-thin walls. I wedge us into a corner. A woman wanders in, gives me a strained smile, and walks quickly away. I realise I’m standing in the dark, looking at the wall and scowling. It’s not a good look.

‘OK, nothing for it but the dinosaurs,’ I mutter, braving the BING BONG of the lift to get downstairs.

And there, amongst the metriorhynchids and Triassic coal forests, I find the blissful quiet I’ve been searching for. Milo slumbers on as I wander to the window. There, in the quadrangle beyond, I spot a gothic tower, shuttered and silent. I remember reading about the Museum advertising for a hermit, someone to occupy a tower just like the one I’m looking at. No contact with the outside world, just hours and days stretching ahead, filled only by… well, nothing.

‘Do you think there’s still time to apply?’ I whisper to my sleeping babe.

Just then, a terrible toddler runs the full length of the dinosaur hall, screaming. Milo winces in his sleep, and flicks his head from side to side. Time to move on.